


cabin pressure

by ahatfullofoctarine (orphan_account)



Series: compatibility measures [4]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Drabble, Family, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Twins, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ahatfullofoctarine
Summary: The war clock stops.  Shiro still loses.Pacific Rim AU.





	cabin pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration taken from the prompt from the Jan Fluffabet A-Z challenge: 
> 
> "Picturesque"

It is a desolate calm that dawns over Arus harbour when the Breach completes its collapse, little more than a ripple on the water’s surface to reflect nothing of The Day, twelve years ago when the Precursors tore open a door from the anteverse into their reality.  Shiro remembers it as clear as he recognizes the familiar tension holding him still where he stands. 

 

 

_He blinks and he’s sixteen again and whole, Jiro beside him as always, fourteen year-old Matt on the outside. All of them crowded with the rest of the Holt clan in front of the television to watch the live news broadcast of the ‘7.0 magnitude quake’ in Oriande City, all of them quiet. Altea’s Patrulian Bridge, pinnacle of modern architecture and design has just collapsed with the structural integrity of a house of cards into a deepening rift in the sea.  Mother Nature sucking in a breath for two minutes..._

_...and spitting Trespasser right out._

 

 

Shiro waits, heart pounding in his head, one-two, one-two hard rapid-fire against the walls of his ribcage the searing pain on his right arm somehow dulled by Iverson’s hollow victory call as he watches the last of Knifehead’s carcass slip beneath the waves. 

 

 

_We won, Jiro._

 

 

A photo journalist is rewarded a Pulitzer for the shot they took of Shiro that day. What a picture he and Nemean Champion make when they return to the neck of the peninsula! The lone sentinel standing as if a part of the landscape’s natural geography, in opposition to the rising tide. Pilot and jaegar ready for one last stand, blood and hydraulic fluid rivuleting all down their right sides in a poetic sort of tandem. Wary gazes cast to the horizon against a backdrop of fireworks as humanity moves to celebrate, moves forward in time to a new era.

 

 

Picturesque, and horrifying at the same time.

 

 

Shiro doesn’t know how long he stands there, how long he’s able to stand there with the whole world watching, Jiro's name tightening up painfully in his throat as the ocean goes silent. Nemean’s engines stutter and succumb to that same stillness, leaving Shiro completely and utterly alone.  

 

 

Heartbreak has always been a numbing sort of pain.

 

 

. . . 

 

 

Lights flash. 

 

 

The inside of a MEDEVAC helicopter. The inside of an operating theatre. A hospital room. A therapist's office--all of them. The inside of the Oriande Museum ballroom. Unrecognizable faces with even more unrecognizable voices. Questions and probing touches--endless, and more invasive than the last. 

 

 

A gentle touch on his arm that brings him back to the stifling Victory Gala; a sudden breach of his walled up defenses that he can't help but flinch violently away from. 

 

 

“Shiro?” Allura looks genuinely hurt and confused.  

 

 

Keith appears at her side, drinks in tow. Over his shoulder twenty or so faces have tuned in to watch. He gets in between Shiro and Allura. 

 

 

“Everybody having fun? Uh, Shiro? How you holding up buddy?”

 

 

“It _is_ getting late,” Allura adds gently. She doesn't try to touch Shiro again, but the urge to is as palpable as the worry in her eyes. “If you need, Keith and I can-” 

 

 

“ _No_! Uh, _no_.” Shiro adds in a calmer tone.  He takes a step back, forcing a smile through the guilt. “Sorry guys. I just--I think I need air. Sorry. Excuse me.” 

 

 

“Shiro. Shiro!” Keith calls. 

 

 

Shiro keeps walking, politely, but firmly deflecting the conversation starters of a few high profile diplomats, the weight of the flask in his jacket pocket bumping gently against his chest. He narrowly sidesteps a server offering another round of champagne, most likely glaring at his retreating back. A few more people standing by the entrance doors, salivating for a piece of Ranger Shirogane, smartphones at the ready. Shiro does a U-turn and crosses the dancefloor, pushing through people to get to the stairs. He remembers the host saying there was a designated balcony on the museum’s third floor for smokers.

It's as good an escape as any.

 

It'll do.

 

. . .

 

 

 

The cacophony of the gala recedes, until it's Shiro's and only Shiro's footsteps echoing against the linoleum as he follows the arrows on the floor. Towards cold, welcoming night and fresh air. Nothing but the occasional sounds of police sirens in the distance to keep him company. Shiro closes his eyes and exhales deeply, his shoulders relaxing just a little. 

 

. . .

 

 

And then Matt scares the living daylights out of him. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Jiro > Kuron


End file.
